Rebound
by ElizabethsRage
Summary: Short stories about PPTH's finest from an interesting POV inspired by Buzzkill Bunny's website. I recommend reading the stories before the reviews, unless you like to have surprises spoiled for you.
1. Rebound

Rebound

I sit here, patiently, waiting to be used. I know that I am useful, and he knows it too. For him, I wear many hats; I fulfill many needs.

He enters, closes the door, we are alone. He sees me waiting, sitting seductively on the corner of his desk. He is urgent in his need, grabbing me roughly and bringing me near his face. He contemplates me for a moment, then tosses me away. I am dejected, I am desperate, but I will rebound. Soon, I am back in his hands again. I am constant, I am loyal. Always I return, knowing my role in our game.

He often holds me, caressing my smooth lines with calloused palms and long fingers. My roundness cupped in his hands, I rest against his stubbled cheek. Deep in thought, always, he is lost in thought; absentmindedly stroking me. I am happiest when he needs me.

Eyes unfocused, staring through me; he stares at me, but never sees me. I am always here, waiting for him to notice me. In his eyes, I am an object; I exist solely for his pleasure.

I miss the days when he would take me outside. We would spend hours together, enjoying the sunshine, the feeling of wind and grass and motion. He rarely goes out anymore; he never takes me when he does. I catch brief glimpses of the world outside this place, but just as quickly they are snatched away from me. I don't like it when he teases me like this, as futile as banging my head on the wall, the window, the floor. But I beg for it, I always come back for more.

Darkness, artificial light, stale air and music surround me now. I enjoy the music that plays from his new little machine. It is happy, and upbeat, and we tap-tap-tap in time to the rhythm. Or it is somber and melancholy, and I roll and sway softly with him. The music reminds him of movement, only then does he remember me.

Without him, I am lonesome but very rarely alone. The others halfheartedly toss me around, passing me from one to another, but it is not the same. They do not know where I came from, or what I do here, but still they toy with me or else they stare at me, puzzled. I do not enjoy being used by them. They are too rough with me, only he treats me with care.

I bring him ideas, pressed to his grizzled chin. Rasping whispers between stubble and fuzz, I soothe him so he can relax; bringing the thoughts jumbled in his head into focus as he twirls me in his hands or strokes my red hair.

He uses me to get their attention, I thump on the glass wall that separates them from us. They try to ignore me, I pound more insistently. My power is too great; when I call, they know to come. Running into his office, they listen to his newest idea. He uses me to illustrate his point; I hang in the air for a moment, unsettled, weightless.

Satisfied, we bounce one last time before he places me on his desk with a loving squeeze. Forgotten until he needs me again. He picks up his cane, and lets the others lead him away. How I hate that damn stick, ever taking him away from me.

The youngest one, a blonde, grabs me and asks, "She's a beauty, but where'd you find one this size?" He tosses me into the air, I don't like it when he does this.

"_She's_ my ball. Don't touch," he responds with a quick thwack of his cane. He plucks me from mid-air and sets me gently down again. His crooked grin the last thing I see, disappears from my view. He will return.

I will sit here, patiently, waiting to be used.


	2. Hanging Around

I spend so much time hanging around her, I barely understand why this job excites me the way that it does. I often focus on the white lab coat that does little to conceal her frame. The vests she often wears, trying hard to conceal her femininity and failing.

She steps into the room, her power of observation keen. It's a tool that serves her well, so she practices to keep it honed. I know she scans every room she enters, taking in every detail.

Immediately, she notices telltale signs: the ragged breath, the elevated pulse, the slight flush. Within seconds I graze her jaw, brushing back a lock of soft, brown hair behind her delicate ear. The smallest puff of her breath warms me before I feel the quick press of flesh.

Intoxicated with this sudden contact, I transmit messages of urgency that belie my calm exterior; she hears gasps for air, heart racing to keep up with the body's need.

She takes charge, her hands calmly but forcefully dragging me lower, moving me to a better position. She bends over slightly as she gathers the information she needs to make the decision to act.

She stands up again; a slight smile touches her lips. From this position, one cannot deny her authority. Brushing me away from her ear, I graze her jaw again, briefly resting against her tender throat, sensitive to the vibrations there as she begins to speak.

"Push ten mils of prednisone, and let's see if we can't get this breathing under control."

Before leaving the room, she gently pulls me away from her throat, and satisfied with a job well done, hangs me around her neck by my black cording, my bell proudly rests above the name embroidered on her lab coat.

I'll spend my days hanging around her neck, but my job will never be dull.


End file.
